


WOVEN 「１」

by DEPECHEWIZARD



Series: Woven [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cardassian Tailor ISO Cute Doctor Twink, Fashies get emotional bashies, Garak is horny for everyone but mostly Julian, Gul Dukat Did HEaps Wrong!!!!!!1, Gul Dukat is bad fash, Homoerotic subtext, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Julian is trans, Julian's bout 2 get a sugar daddy but I should be serious about this, Lime hahahaha, M/M, Mild Sm00t, No Explicit Sexual Content, Oh yeah Garak has a tail. nice, Oooh lizard slash, Other, Part one of three, Post 'The Wire', Pre-Relationship, Repressed Cardassian homosexuality meets massive trauma aaaaaa, Sexual Tension, Trauma, Unresolved Sexual Tension, age gap, and physical bashies 2, getting together ', headcanon: heaps of Cardassians are homophobes, there's an overarching story here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 11:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20257054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DEPECHEWIZARD/pseuds/DEPECHEWIZARD
Summary: “Excuse me,” says a prim, steady voice. Garak knows that before his face is level with the visitor’s that they are Cardassian. No other species could sound as cinched in and clipped; arrow straight... her forehead gives her away in Garak’s mind. The thin vertical smear of blue pigment in the centre of her Chufa practically confirms it. He can’t help but smile; the thin streak of makeup is like a friendly smile in a room trying to accommodate a crushing crowd. At the same time, it winds some facet of his memory backwards; and in some part of him he is twenty one rotations again, sweltering even on a winter evening, edging his way towards a rangy man with a tiny daub of deep purple in the centre of his forehead..."“You don’t remember me at all, do you?” Garak stares.“I’m sorry?” Her smirk is more transparent now. “I was Gul Dukat’s aide. Here, on Terok Nor."Again, Garak is floored. Luckily, he understands what he must do. He must compartmentalise this; scrub it away, as quickly as possible.“Oh!” He intones, fixing her with his most extravagant smile, the kind he would employ on a worried (and worrisome) Doctor Bashir."Garak's past catches up with him, again. Julian has decisions to make.





	WOVEN 「１」

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinsnip](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/gifts).

> I wrote this piece using a potent and heady combo of my own and other’s headcanons. Huge shout out to tinsnip for writing this fabulous speculative guide to Cardassian Reproductive Anatomy, it’s worth its weight in latinum: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479  
Part 2 and 3 will feature even more... fun. Later works will be more explicit, will warn using tags RE content.
> 
> This one’s for Jamie from Garak is Love/Garak is Life gronp. Many thank for your story concept. I had a heap of fun writing this. I’ve been a fanfic weirdo for about 12 years or more, but have been far too nervous to post anything serious until now. Ngā mihi Nui! (best regards)!
> 
> This work is largely in 'federation standard' bc I’m not in top mental or physical shape rn. Future stories will take a crack at the language side of things, but three languages bopping around in my brain is quite enough for the time being. 
> 
> Have fun with the homoerotic lizard content. I’ve personally fallen down the scalie well and can’t get out. I read and write English, Japanese and Te Reo Māori, hmu for chats about star trek queers anytime
> 
> \- Rei (He/Him) 
> 
> PS: Playlist! https://tinyurl.com/yxnfejf3

I

WOVEN 「1」

”I want to have my freedom stolen by unpredicted love/ Oh, I knew with one look/ I'll give you cold words and a warm kiss/ This is love/”  
「予期せぬ愛に自由奪われたいね・Oh 一目で分かったの・冷たい言葉と暖かいキスあげるよ・This is love, this is love」

”Violent rain and love that sprouts unexpectedly/Oh, this will become the cold pillow and warm bed/of both uneasiness and comfort./This is love, this is love/”  
「激しい雨も ふいに芽生える愛も・Oh 不安と安らぎの・冷たい枕と暖かいベッドになるよ・This is love, this is love」

”With frightened eyes between dreams,/someone peers at the digital camera and awakens./I tried softly embracing them myself. I really can't say it, but/Perhaps this might be love/”  
「夢と夢のあいだ 怯えた目で・デジカメ覗いて さまよう人・私からそっと 抱いてみたの・とても言えないけど・もしかしたら これは愛かも」

”The unstoppable genes that echo in the violent rain/ Oh, I want to grow these for you:/ The flowers of fate and/ the aimless flowers of the soul/ This is love, this is love/”  
「激しい雨に 鳴り止まない遺伝子・Oh 咲かせてあげたいの・運命の花を あてどないソウルの花を・This is love, this is love」

”When I get a bad premonition/it makes my heart pound/Oh, even if I don't treat it badly/this body will one day perish, so/I'll spoil it/This is love, this is love/”  
「悪い予感がするとわくわくしちゃうな・Oh 痛めつけなくても・この身はいつか滅びるものだから 甘えてなんぼ・This is love, this is love」

”Being scolded and hurt,/ told it's already over:/ haven't you experienced these things too?/The spell to open the door that's been shut/”  
「もう済んだことと決めつけて・損したこと あなたにもありませんか?・閉ざされてた扉開ける呪文・Oh 今度こそあなたに聞こえるといいな」

宇多田ヒカル・Utada Hikaru, 2010  
https://www.uta-net.com/movie/43820/

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The sewing machine emits a final, guttural warning cry before the needle struggles to a stop, bunching up several square centimetres of finest Vulcan chiffon. It isn’t really chiffon, Garak scowls to himself; the standardised federation bureaucracy seeps into the language, too. He sighs and spins the dial at the side of the cumbersome machine, attempting to extricate the needle from the fabric. It’s snapped, so retrieving the pieces takes several minutes. Garak curses to himself under his breath- in Kardassi of course- tail flicking absently beside his chair. 

“Excuse me,” says a prim, steady voice. Garak knows that before his face is level with the visitor’s that they are Cardassian. No other species could sound as cinched in and clipped; arrow straight.  
He’s right, of course, as he looks up- she is Cardassian. He assumes, of course; he can’t really extrapolate gender from two words, however, her forehead gives her away in Garak’s mind. The thin vertical smear of blue pigment in the centre of her Chufa practically confirms it. He can’t help but smile; the thin streak of makeup is like a friendly smile in a room trying to accommodate a crushing crowd. At the same time, it winds some facet of his memory backwards; and in some part of him he is twenty one rotations again, sweltering even on a winter evening, edging his way towards a rangy man with a tiny daub of deep purple in the centre of his forehead-

“I’d like to be measured for a dress, if that isn’t too much trouble.” Her voice is a husky murmur; her hair pulled up neatly as to barely brush her neck ridges. Her lips are lined and filled with red. Garak finds himself staring.  
“Of course!” He starts a little. “Come right this way, please.”  
As he sets the sonic measuring parameters, he reflects on how cumbersome these sonic tools had proven to be thus far. He’d purchased the set (for what seemed a reasonable price at the time) from Quark, while Nog sat taking frantic mental notes at the bar. Four years later, however, the so called ’top of the range’ products were definitely breaking down. His sonic seam ripper, for instance, had developed a melted tip and could barely slice through a thread of Terran cotton. Garak thinks he should at least invest in a tritanium seam ripper, if not demand a partial refund from Quark. 

While Garak entertains these vague and distracted notions, the woman watches him from the mirror behind her.  
“You don’t remember me at all, do you?”  
Garak stares. “I’m sorry?”  
Her smirk is more transparent now. “I was Gul Dukat’s aide. Here, on Terok Nor.”  
Again, Garak is floored. Luckily, he understands what he must do. He must compartmentalise this; scrub it away, as quickly as possible.  
“Oh!” He intones, fixing her with his most extravagant smile, the kind he would employ on a worried (and worrisome) Doctor Bashir. “I see. I apologise for my lapse in memory.” He pauses to punch in few more parameters before steering his craft directly into the wind. “Are you still in his service, then?”  
The woman too, pauses. “No,” she seems to decide. “No, not for several years now. “  
“I see.”  
The smirk is unmistakable. Garak realises that he’s said the same thing twice. Pathetic. He furls and unfurls his tail quickly, surreptitiously, to clear his head.  
“Forgive me for saying so, Mister Garak, but you seem… Preoccupied.”  
Like hell he’s preoccupied, he thinks, barely registering the appearance of such a… Federation expression. And the woman is still waiting.  
“Oh no,” he cuts in, the silence raking his skin like knives. “I’m quite all right.”  
“I see,” she replies, as if parroting him. She continues to watch him from the mirror as he works. By the time he’s bowed her (stiffly) out of the shop, all the wants to see is a fragrant glass of kanar, a hot, water based shower, some mood lighting, and…  
Ah. The thought he’s been chasing away throughout that entire high-strung, electric little encounter comes rushing back to him. Julian. Doctor Bashir. It’s not as if he can call him ‘Julian’ to his obliviously kind face. Obviously. Somewhere in his mind are two people at odds, Julian Bashir and- 

The man in the crowded room smiles lazily at him, calm within the sea of faces, hair slicked back to reveal the tiny smear of colour. Garak can’t separate him from the rest of the noise in his brain, but he is still there; eyes fixed on Garak’s.  
He locks the doors and makes for the Replimat, bypassing Quark’s in a longer loop of the Promenade. He doesn’t see anyone he really knows well, or cares to know. 

Dukat’s face stays firmly burnt into the backs of his retinas, however, the smallest oval of purple makeup overbright and saturated against distortion and darkness. 

II

Bashir is already at their usual table in the Replimat when Garak arrives. He appears to be drinking an extra strength Raktajino while poring over a PADD.  
“My dear doctor.” Garak sinks into the opposite chair and surveys Bashir over interlocked fingers. “More caffeine I see.”  
“I’ve been up all night,” yawns Bashir, swirling his mug in one hand. “Medical systems upgrade.”  
“I’m sorry to hear it, “laments Garak, smoothly. “You must rest more.”  
“Nonsense,”comes the reply. “I can take it.”  
“My dear, you require sleep, just as we all do,” says Garak, happily firing up. They both know it by heart, at this point. It’s a game, after all. Once you know the rules, it’s hard to slip out of the routine.  
“You’re drinking Kanar at lunchtime,” Bashir adds, smirking, setting his PADD aside.  
“Doctor, it’s syntheholic, as you very well know.”  
Bashir surveys him carefully, seemingly pleased with what he sees.  
“So,” begins Garak, pleased with how smoothy the word rolls off his tongue by now,”Shakespeare.”  
“Oh!” Bashir’s face lights up, British lilt rising. “The Sleep/Death analogy.”  
“Indeed. Although I’m not certain that I agree with the Death portion of the argument, doctor. Prince Hamlet could have taken his life with little consequence.”  
Bashir leaps a little in his seat. Garak quickly, surreptitiously, even nervously, twists his tail beside his chair, eyes darting about. As ever, no one is watching either of them. The little silver bubble around their table remains, as ever, intact. These odd little stimulating quirks that Bashir emits every so often, like a little beacon, a rope reaching home, seem enough to stop Garak's heart in his chest. Bashir is hopelessly human, warm and vulnerable. 

“Garak!” He snaps back into the conversation. “What do you mean, you damned lizard! Little consequence?!”  
Garak smiles a little, teasing. He’s perfectly aware that Bashir is still playing. He believes, earnestly, that he can push the envelope.  
“My dear. Prince Hamlet barely fulfils his obligation to his family. He rears no children, and scorns his only mate. He seeks to bring harm to his uncle, and terrifies his mother. This is no archetype to present to the eager ears of the public! No, Prince Hamlet should clearly eschew his morbid curiosities, as you Terrans would say, and embrace his duty to family and home.”  
For the first time, Bashir frowns a little. “You’re saying that Hamlet’s deep, dark, all-consuming depression can be overcome by tending to the hearth and home? Come on, Garak, you know better than that!”

Garak tries another smile, less placating than satisfied, but it seems to work. Bashir’s attention is once again on his quickly disappearing Raktajino, fingers fumbling. Again, Garak is struck anew by something cold, seeping in from the edges of their bubble.  
“You seem distracted, Garak.”  
Garak takes a cautious sip of Kanar- replicated, sadly. It takes a large portion of effort not to wince. He surveys Bashir from under his forehead ridges, eyes round. “I had a rather unusual customer in my shop today, my dear.” He leans in closer, as they both do so often at this table. “She claims to be a former aide of Gul Dukat.”  
Julian frowns, almost as naively and studiously as the day the two of them met. There’s something that was missing that first time though; real fear, fear of real death and real bloodshed. Garak doesn’t doubt that there is danger here, but he has bigger things to worry about. Dukat, for instance, resplendent and 25 years old, in a crowded room-

“Garak? You’re really not yourself today, are you?” Bashir frowns more heavily, creases appearing in this forehead and around his eyes. The sight is an open, honest one, and in Garak’s strange reptilian mind, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. “Do I need to take you to the infirmary?”  
“Oh, no, Doctor.” Garak sighs, flexes his tail, licks his lips. As his tongue darts out, Bashir watches it in fascination. Again, a hole has appeared. The bubble has been breached. And again, Garak is where he always was- in the Replimat with an extraordinarily attractive man, trying not to shrink under the lights, longing for the warmth of his quarters and his bed. “Would you have the time to share dinner with me tonight?”  
Bashir seems to be clinging to every scrap of good grace he possesses, hand hovering halfway to his empty mug. “Me?”  
Garak feels his lips quirk upwards into a smile. No matter how reptilian he looks to passersby, the bubble seems to be healing itself as they stare at each other.  
“Of course,” Garak replies, so smooth he surprises even himself. “Who else?”  
As usual, reporting on an obvious fact leaves Bashir completely tongue tied.


End file.
